Hey. I'm still alive. Pretty wild, right? I'm now closer to 41 than 40. Never thought I'd make it anywhere near this far. Life just sort of kept happening, despite my occasional best efforts at otherwise.
I've had a form of writer's block that may be interpreted as "fear to come to the table" or perhaps more accurately, "fear of showing up when no one else does." This never used to be one of my blocks, but then I had a therapist who talked some shit about how one is not really a writer if not published, if not read, if the words are not shared. Until then, I'd been happy writing my swollen fingers off for a crowd of one (me). But this therapist was young – younger than I – and perhaps was buying into the performative nature of the internet: one needs onlookers (readers) to be influential. He likely didn't understand that rarely have I wanted to be influential; always have I wanted to purge the words. Hypergraphia. Hypergraphia does not seek to be read, nor to be understood. It simply seeks to exist.
Sometimes, I think I only still exist because of that compulsion in me that is driven to give life to the words.
At any rate, while I know that therapist was wrong – writers are made writers by the act of writing, not by being read – I can't help but feel that something about it is correct. Or maybe I've just reached a place in my life that wants acknowledgement... or wants that paycheck.
Whatever it is, I've been silent because I've started to worry about not getting what I want, whatever that is (I'm still trying to figure it out). What I do know is that the words are still here. In my head. They're waiting while I tremble on the precipice of what will surely be a deluge given that I haven't written in eighteen months. In the meantime, I let it keep raining inside, a word gathering of sorts. After all, there's only so much one dyke can take before cracking under the force of pressure.